


the days blur into one

by themorninglark



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Sheith Charity Zine: Infinite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 05:37:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11120997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/themorninglark
Summary: It's your choice,Shiro had said, leaning against their rickety window frame with his arms crossed. Outside, the summer painted itself into the granite cliffs, a long, slow fade, and the dying light left little room for regret.So Keith had chosen, and never looked back.In which Shiro and Keith face a life of normality, and all the days that come after that.





	the days blur into one

**Author's Note:**

> This was my contribution to the [Sheith Charity Zine: Infinite](http://sheithzine.tumblr.com). It was an honour to be a part of this truly mammoth undertaking, with such a meaningful cause. Thank you mods for all your incredible hard work! I hope everyone who snagged a copy of the zine enjoys it!
> 
> Song for the fic (and the title): [Radical Face's "Welcome Home"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P8a4iiOnzsc)

 

_Turn on the light in the pantry. No—not the pantry any more—not a space-grade assembly line of mystery goo and dubiously flavoured energy drinks, dished up by a robotic arm that Pidge named Denver. A distant cousin to Rover, perhaps. None of that now. Just a home kitchen like any other. Crack an egg with your own two hands. How smooth it feels. How fragile, the jagged shards of that outer shell._

 

"Hey," Shiro says, his waking voice scratchy and deep.

Keith shoots a look over his shoulder to meet that lingering half-smile, still boyish at this hour, and finds himself distracted all over again. He'd been absorbed: caught up in the sound of sizzling oil, the kettle bubbling over, and he had not heard Shiro's approach. _Careless._ He tries to be annoyed at himself, but breakfast needs his attention.

So, somewhat awkwardly, Keith slides his spatula underneath the egg. It's browning up nice at the edges. He remembers what Hunk taught him. Narrows his eyes, breathes out and times the flick of his wrist _just so_ to pull off a magnificent flip.

He turns to Shiro, a victory smirk teasing at his lips. The raised eyebrow he gets in exchange is better than a kiss.

"Hey," Keith tosses back, casual.

The sun has yet to rise. Shiro goes over to the cupboards and takes out the black tea.

Keith pauses to admire his misshapen omelette. Behind him, he hears a soft humming, a ceramic clink and rattle as Shiro lays out the usual tableau at their slightly wobbly table. Two cups. Two plates that they bought from the flea market, a mismatched set no one else wanted. One fork and knife, for Shiro; for Keith, just one fork, because he already _has_ a perfectly good knife, and he's never quite learnt how to put it down.

 _Colonel Takashi Shirogane_ , thinks Keith, for all his heroic qualities, cannot carry a tune, least of all in the morning. Silently, selfishly, he exults in the knowledge that this secret is his to keep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Tug on your glove with your teeth, tighten its fit round your knuckles, your callused fingers. This pair is not broken in like your old ones. They do not smell of sweat and dirt. The only thing they have in common is that Shiro bought them for you, and that he has kissed them, and kissed them again. When you get on your trusty bike and hold on to the handlebars, the vibrations in your palm make you shiver._

 

Midday is gloriously searing, just the way Keith likes it. He feels the sweat roll off his brow, the nape of his neck; when he's whipping through the sky like this, he is a glimmer cut from the desert's mirage, a sight for sore eyes. His bandanna's tied tight to keep the sand from getting into his mouth.

Today, his errands do not take him anywhere near the Garrison, which means they will not steal a shared lunch on the rooftop, as they do from time to time. _Technically_ , it's restricted airspace, but being the saviour of the universe has some perks. Just a handful.

Keith dips low, comes in for a landing at the Holts', and knocks on the door. Pidge's mother opens it. She smiles in recognition.

"Hi, Mrs Holt," Keith says, and unstraps a lightly glowing cylindrical capsule from the back of his hoverbike. "I've got something for you. From the Auriga constellation."

Mrs Holt sighs. "Matt sent me some more space dust, didn't he?"

The capsule hums, vibrates in Keith's hand, as if in response to Mrs Holt's voice signature. Keith hefts it and squints at the label as he hands it over. "It's kinda heavy this time. _Maybe_ it's a rock."

"Runs in the family," she says, smile softening. "Thank you, Keith."

Keith nods and hops back on his bike. The engine purrs like a memory imprinted. Sensuous, red. _Red._ For a second, an old impulse seizes him. _Faster, faster,_ sings the blood in his veins.

Kicking off the ground, he soars up and away.

 _Auriga, the charioteer._ He could've been there too, pilot to this mission, with Pidge and her brother. The Garrison had offered to take him back. Even wipe clean his disciplinary slate. _Perks._

 _It's your choice,_ Shiro had said, leaning against their rickety window frame with his arms crossed. Outside, the summer painted itself into the granite cliffs, a long, slow fade, and the dying light left little room for regret.

So Keith had chosen, and never looked back.

 _Interplanetary delivery boy_ , some still say, seems an anticlimactic career for the likes of the Red Paladin; to Keith, it is stark and simple. He never cared to be a _hero_. He doesn't need much. Only the freedom to blaze his own path, to fly where he will—and maybe, finally—

 _Home_ , or something close enough.

Rebuilding, like so much else that he and Shiro have shared, takes patience. A tentative reaching, growing surer, stronger.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Crack a can of cola open with your knife. Stand lounging on the step of the front porch. You are not waiting. You just happen to be there, watching the sun go down in reckless crimson. It splashes across the October sky like a stubborn refusal to die. You know the feeling. Inside, there's a stew on low heat, with dried chilli, lentils, and whatever you could find in the fridge. It will not rain, not today. Not tomorrow. Speckled across the desert, the cactus flowers blossom like bursts of flame._

 

It's not like Keith's allergic to solid ground, only, as Lance used to point out, he _kind of is_.

"You look like you have a stick up your ass _all_ the time," had been his exact words, delivered prone on the lounge, with a mask on his face and a finger wagging obnoxiously at Keith, " _except!_ When you're flying."

But solid ground, Keith's learning, is more than cracked earth and loose floorboards. Sometimes, it comes in shapes that he had not expected.

So Shiro finds him outside, tipping the last of the cola down his throat, and Keith tosses the empty can into the trash. A perfect shot. He smiles, the restless sunset catching on his lips.

Shiro takes a deep breath at the breeze that wafts through their open window. "That smells… interesting."

Keith tilts his head, nonchalant. "Just something I threw together."

“Right,” says Shiro, as he breaks out into a grin. “Well, _that_ explains it.”

He heads indoors, pausing to brush the sand off his soles, and Keith follows. The light spills brilliant across their threshold, a welcome carpet of gold and weathered oak.

"You should see the new cadets," Shiro remarks, taking off his coat. Keith stirs the stew roughly with a ladle. It's sticking a little on the bottom. He elects not to tell Shiro this, because a little burnt stuff never hurt anyone.

"Are they bad?" Keith asks.

Shiro shakes his head. "No. They're _good_. Really good. One of them might break your combat simulator record soon."

"My record? You mean it's still mine?"

"Yeah." Shiro sets his boots neatly by the door. "Are you surprised?"

Keith, after a moment, shrugs. "Guess I never really thought about it. It seems so… so _small_ now. You know?"

"You _were_ the best in a century," Shiro reminds him. His voice is quiet with pride.

Keith keeps his gaze facing forward. Beyond the window, he sees his old jacket on their clothesline, swaying in the backyard. Wings swoop soundlessly over the outcropping in the distance.

"But yeah." Shiro nods. "I know."

There are things that Keith can cherish, inscribed in time. There are things that are warm, real, _now_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Glass of milk. Scramble to untwist the lid, take a sip yourself straight from the bottle, just to make sure it hasn't gone off. Set the saucepan to simmer and watch the flames stir to life in the pitch dark, before it strikes you that you have a microwave now. Well, whatever. Who needs fancy waves anyway? Fire's good enough. And as you slip back into your bedroom, press the glass into Shiro's hand and your lips to his like a tattoo, you don't need to look anymore. All you need is this._

 

Because sometimes, Shiro still wakes in the middle of the night.

Keith knows, even before Shiro does. He knows when Shiro jerks and tangles their fingers together, when his breathing goes shallow.

So: warm milk, a timeless remedy, and Keith runs a thumb across the scar etched on Shiro's face, searing his own touch into that old wound. No override, no retreat; simply a chance at healing, and he'll seize it. This is where they meet. Back at the beginning.

They have their memories here, and a future that they fought for.

"Hey," Keith murmurs, insistent. Not a promise. Just honesty. That much, he's always been able to give. He says it again.

"Hey, Shiro. We're home."


End file.
